


The Theremin's Protege Affair, Part I: The Other Shoe

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: The Cold War Collar Affairs [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The disappearance of a KGB scientist spurs Illya's -probably permanent- recall to the Soviet Union, but both he and Napoleon come to conclude that a dissolution of their partnership is not acceptable to either of them. There is only one way for Illya to be allowed to return from the USSR, and it requires Napoleon to undertake great personal risk. Other, more subtle risks will be required of Illya, and though they will be allowed to work together, it will be under such conditions that it may work a profound change in each of them and in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Giving credit where credit is due:The BDSM Universe was origionally created by [ Xanthe](http://www.xanthe.org/bdsm-universe/) and this author uses it with her acknowledgement.  
> Beta Reader: The highly precise and efficient[spikesgirl58](http://spikesgirl58.livejournal.com/)  
> Plus: gratuitous insertion of classic newspaper comics.

Living the life of a spy meant living in the moment. Napoleon knew that as well as anyone at UNCLE, and tried, usually successfully, to follow that advice. Bad times come and go, and good times, too, so that when they do come, they are to be cherished and enjoyed without regrets about the past nor worries about the future. Times were, in fact, pretty damned good for Napoleon these days and much of the credit for this went to his partner, Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon took each day he spent with the man as a gift, but when the news came that those days might be coming to the end, it came to him like the dropping of the second shoe.

He was dismayed to discover how much he'd apparently been dreading this day, all the time he'd supposedly been enjoying his partnership with Illya, both in the field on missions and in private. In fact, it was now apparent, he'd been putting some effort into _not_ thinking about how impermanent Illya's situation was, nor how little say the Russian ultimately had in how and where he might serve his country, or even live his life. It all came home to him as Master Waverly gave them the news in his office, one spring morning, about a year and a half after they'd first begun working together.

"We've been following some recent reports about a Soviet scientist, named Leon Theremin," Waverly had begun. The name meant nothing to Napoleon, but Illya became very subtly alert the moment he heard it.

"As of yesterday we can definitely confirm that he is no longer working with the KGB, as he has for the last decade or so," Waverly continued, "and is either missing or dead, though we have no specific evidence that the latter is true. We know he is no longer with the KGB, because the Soviets have identified his replacement, which will come as something of an inconvenience to UNCLE, I am afraid."

There was a pause, and then Illya said with a sigh, "It's me, isn't it?"

This was the moment of the other shoe dropping for Napoleon, even as part of him remained thoroughly confused about who this Theremin guy was and why Illya had to be his replacement. The confusion must have shown on his face, as Waverly's next comment was directed at him.

"Leon Theremin is, or was, a brilliant electrical engineer and one of the foremost experts on miniature electronics and listening devices in the world," he explained. "Mr. Kuryakin worked as his assistant in the five years or so prior to his transfer to UNCLE and, according to the information we have, was far and away his most successful assistant. One might go so far as to describe him as his protégé."

"That… would not be entirely inaccurate," Illya confirmed, his expression almost wistful.

"But…" Napoleon finally found his voice, "we're going to fight this, right? We're not just going to turn Illya over to the Russians; we need him here."

"Unfortunately, Mr.. Solo," Waverly's voice was it's usual implacable calm, carrying with it a mild admonition against rash behavior, "we have very few options. The move would stand as a considerable advancement for Mr.. Kuryakin's career, and one we have no right to interfere in. You may, of course," Waverly turned to address Illya personally, "request asylum in the US at any time, but I don't need to tell you how complicated that would eventually be."

Illya nodded. "I have considered it previously," he said, looking right at Napoleon so that Napoleon could not miss the fact that he was the reason Illya had made such considerations. "It would have been complicated then; now it could potentially cause a diplomatic incident. If Theremin has, in fact, disappeared and not been killed, it is probably because he has found a way to flee to the West. This will be a great blow to Soviet pride, and I am the price they are demanding in compensation. I do not think I dare resist, at this point."

Only Waverly's quelling gaze kept Napoleon from exploding. How could Illya give up so easily? To hell with diplomatic incidents and Soviet pride! Illya was _his,_ dammit! That, however, was Napoleon the Alpha Top speaking, and Napoleon, the Number One, Section One of UNCLE knew that this was not actually the case at all. Illya was, and always would be, his own man, and as much as Napoleon did love him, heart and soul, Illya's destiny must be his own to choose. He deflated a bit in his seat, marginally aware that Waverly had not missed his near lapse, and approved of his self-control.

In the meantime, Waverly was confirming that, yes, Illya would have two weeks to settle his affairs here, and that in that time he and Napoleon would also be investigating what they could about Theremin's actual whereabouts. Illya had some ideas about a lead there.

"I believe he had a… paramour," he said. "A Top named Clara Rockmore, who lives here in New York. She was a student of his and became the preeminent performer on the musical instrument he invented."

"He invented a musical instrument?" Napoleon asked. "I thought you said he was an electrical engineer?"

"It is an electronic instrument," Illya explained, "which bears his name, the Theremin. You really should pay more attention to modern musical trends, Napoleon. Everyone is using such instruments nowadays."

Waverly dismissed them after that, and they walked back to their office in silence. Napoleon had just enough restraint to wait until the door was closed to round on Illya, releasing the pent up anger and anxiety he had suppressed in Waverly's office.

"Illya, for God's sake, are you really just going to walk away without a fight?" he cried, taking hold of Illya's shoulders. "I can't believe you'd just give in to them like that!"

Angrily, Illya shrugged Napoleon's hands away, turning to pace the small confines of their office. "There is no 'just' about it, Napoleon. If you have a knife and your opponent has a rocket launcher, do you say that you 'just' surrender? No, you acknowledge common sense. There really are some fights you can't win, Napoleon. Even you have experienced this."

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Napoleon riposted, slamming his hand against the wall with such force that Illya paused briefly in his pacing. "You surrender to greater forces so that you can come back and fight again, when the odds are better. If we let you go back there now you're _never_ coming back!"

"'Let me'?" Illya whirled around to face him, eyes blazing. Napoleon had known it was the wrong thing to say the minute the words had left his mouth, but by then it was too late. " _'Let_ me'?! You are not my Top, Napoleon Solo! This is not _your_ collar!" Illya pointed to the dark leather emblazoned with the Soviet hammer and sickle which encircled his neck. 

"The ones who put this collar on me, _they_ are the only ones who may 'let' me do anything and they have let me serve here as long as it pleases them. Now it does not and I do their bidding as I always have." 

"But you hate that they forced this collar on you," Napoleon countered. "And they had no right to do it, Illya! They had no right to force a collar on you then and they have no right to force you back to Russia now! You can't just give in to the bastards like that. We have to fight them!"

Illya had begun to slow as Napoleon spoke, and now he stopped in his pacing to cross his arms and gaze with overt disgust in Napoleon's direction.

"You are just as arrogant as every other American I have ever met," he said. "You are so full of yourselves, you think that just because you are 'right' in some sort of capitalist-Christian moral sense, that you can take on the world and expect everyone to come around to your side. You have _no idea_ of the realities that apply to every other citizen of the world, and so you judge us all." Napoleon started to object, struggling to find words that would refute this and failing. "You do!" Illya exclaimed before Napoleon could utter even a word. "And you have judged me as well, as a coward, a quitter, a man who 'just gives in' too quickly and easily, cowed by the evil ogre of his government; do not deny it!" Napoleon felt his throat close, and could only shake his head.

"You are like spoiled children, thinking you will always get you way," Illya continued. "You knew from the beginning, Napoleon, that what we had here could not last. I am Russian!" He said this last with his accent exposed, rolling his 'r's and deepening his vowels. "And I will never be anything else. I will never _belong_ anywhere else and if you imagined otherwise then you were deluding yourself."

And before Napoleon could think of a thing to say in reply, Illya turned and left, sweeping out of the office in a Slavic tempest. The room seemed smaller without him, and much, much lonelier.

*^*^*

 

Striding forcefully down the corridor, Illya hardly knew where he was bound, only that he had to get away from Napoleon before he said something truly hurtful. There was a pesky little voice in his head telling him that it was already too late for that, but he refused to listen, steering himself instead towards the labs. He'd need to pack his things up there as well, so why not start now?

His work station in the UNCLE labs had always been a comforting place for him, with his desk and lab bench set up just the way he liked them. It was uncomfortable to think about never working here again. The thought stirred the pot of his already tumultuous emotions, making it harder still to focus on anything.

He had not wanted to hurt Napoleon, but Napoleon had hurt him… at least Illya felt hurt, but could not quite put his finger on just what had been said that was hurtful, or why. Dammit, why did this have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he just think rationally about this and for that matter, why couldn't everyone else? Opening his top desk drawer, Illya realized that the business of packing up his lab station was going to be more difficult that he'd figured as well.

The various supplies and bits of equipment in the drawer were a mix of UNCLE property, things he'd bought himself and things he'd borrowed from coworkers. He'd have to sort it all, and each of the drawers would be like this, or worse. There was stuff in the back of the drawer he hadn't seen in years, he was sure, only it was hanging up on something and wouldn't come out all the way. Illya jerked hard at the drawer to get it unstuck, then harder, and then all at once it came free, wrenching itself out of Illya's grasp and emptying its contents onto the floor with a loud crash.

Illya was aware of the gaze of many pairs of eyes turning in his direction in the silence that followed. "Sorry," he muttered, bending to gather up the contents of his drawer, depositing pens, pencils, slide rules, test tubes, litmus papers, note pads, pencil leads, ink cartridges, and diverse other things onto his desk by the handful. He stared at it when he had it all off the floor, but couldn't make sense of any of it. What did it matter, really?

Was he really going to bring any of this back with him to Russia? They would supply him with all the pencil leads and litmus papers he needed, just like they'd provide him with a furnished flat… or more likely a room in the flat of some high ranking Top who'd laid claim to him… and he'd only have his own room if he was lucky. There was no point in thinking about that, however, as that would all be out of his control.

The only thing that was not entirely out of his control was how he spent the next two weeks, and besides finding as many good jazz concerts as he could in the time remaining, there was only one thing that seemed important to do in that time, and that was sort things with Napoleon. A moment ago it had seemed sufficient to wait till tomorrow for that, but now, suddenly Illya couldn't bear thinking that Napoleon would go home with the memory of Illya's thoughtlessly cruel words fresh and unamended.

Impatiently, Illya swept all the drawer contents off his desk and back into the drawer and then left it all sitting on top of his desk. He exited the lab as swiftly as he had entered, heedless of the work he'd disrupted. Illya felt relief at seeing the light still shining through the window of their office door, as that meant Napoleon had probably not gone home yet, but something made him hesitate at the threshold. The light was dim, as though from only a single desk lamp, and when Illya peered in he saw that it was Napoleon's desk lamp and that the man himself was sitting there.

He did not seem to be working, however, as his posture was hunched, as if he had his head in his hands, and though he was not moving otherwise, Illya could see his shoulders shuddering unevenly. It took a moment before he realized what he was seeing.

Illya had to step away from the door then to lean heavily against the corridor wall. The ugly reality he'd been striving to ignore was at last crashing in on him and the terrible foolishness in trying to 'manage' it with his usual coolness. He'd gone from cool to downright frosty when Napoleon had tried make him see the truth. Somewhere in his beleaguered brain Illya had believed that he was 'sheltering' Napoleon from what this truly meant for him… and for them. He'd been trying to shelter himself too, trying to convince himself that leaving UNCLE, and Napoleon, would just be like leaving any other job, and that was an impossibly preposterous lie.

He returned to their office door, scuffling and making unnecessary noise with the handle before he entered so that Napoleon would have a moment to compose himself. Illya entered slowly, closing the door behind him and sitting heavily in his own desk chair, which he turned to face Napoleon. His partner did not turn away from his desk, however, though he seemed to have straightened somewhat.

"Napoleon," Illya began quietly after a moment. "I… I don't know…" He was interrupted almost immediately.

"Illya," Napoleon interjected, still facing away, his voice rough, as Illya had never before heard it. "You don't have to say anything else. You were right. I need to… face reality. I should have kept certain things in mind… things I was perfectly aware of…"

Illya could literally not sit still and listen to this. He'd endured Thrush tortures less painful. He stood abruptly, hands raised to either cover his ears or clutch his head in agony. "Stop, Napoleon, just stop," he cried. "It's bad enough that this drivel came from my own mouth," he said. "Please do not make me hear it again from you."

Now Napoleon turned, and the expression on his face was utterly lost. "Illya?" was all he could manage.

"I was an idiot, all right?" Illya paced the floor once, then sat abruptly. "I was harboring some… delusion that if I hid how wretched I felt that I could… protect you from feeling the same. I said a great deal of rubbish and wish more than anything that I could take back every word of it, Napoleon… I am so very sorry…"

"I… I'm not sure I understand," Napoleon said after a moment. Illya sighed heavily, scrubbing his hands over his eyes.

"It was a cowardly thing that I did," he explained. "I couldn't face… how painful this is going to be, for me or for you, so instead I tried to pretend that it wouldn't be. _I_ knew there would be consequences to letting myself become close to you, and I told myself that I would deal with them when the time came… and at the moment I can't say that I am very pleased with my conduct."

"You think it was any different for me?" Napoleon said softly. "I may be an 'arrogant American'," and the gentle smile he gave as he spoke took almost all of the sting out of the words, "but I'm no idiot. I knew as well as you that our future was uncertain at best. I told myself the same thing —that we'd cross that bridge when we came to it— never imagining that there might not be a bridge at all."

Grimacing, Illya shook his head, steeling himself for what he must confess next. "But there is a bridge, Napoleon, and seeing as I knew about it from the beginning and kept it to myself…" He sighed, shaking his head sorrowfully. "A lie of omission is still a lie, even if it is to protect you from embarking on an endeavor in which your life will be at grave risk. If I trust you, then I do not have the right to take that choice away from you by withholding the truth."

"And what is that truth, Illya?" Napoleon asked.

"As I am considered a submissive by my government," Illya began deliberately, "you, as a Top, have the option of making a 'claim' for me, which you may validate by means of a 'challenge' that will take place under my government's supervision. They are widely known to cheat, and raise the odds in favor of their own 'champion' in these challenges, but there remains a small chance that you may win me from my government by this means."

Now Napoleon was sitting straight up in his chair. "Illya," he said, drawing a sharp breath of surprise. "Are you saying that you'd let me… that you'd accept my claim, if I made it…?"

"'Let you'?" Illya said with a pained smile. "Who am I to 'let you' do anything?"

"Who are you?" Napoleon echoed. "You are the only one, who can say what you will or won't let me do. And I'm serious, Illya. If you tell me you don't want me to do this, then I won't. I swear."

Illya considered this for a moment with real surprise. He hadn't expected this possibility at all, assuming that once Napoleon knew he had the option to make a claim for Illya, he'd act on it immediately. It was perhaps the most overt declaration of love he'd ever heard from his partner, and it touched him to the core. He could do no less than answer in kind.

"I told myself," he replied after a moment, "that knowing you were safe here in the West would be consolation enough for me… but I don't want consolation. I want you. I want you to make that claim and win me. I said before that I could never belong anywhere but Russia, but that was a lie too. Wherever you are, Napoleon, that is where I truly belong, and nowhere else."

Napoleon was up and bridging the space that separated them before Illya had even finished talking, lifting Illya out of his chair and pulling him into his arms. His embrace was nearly crushing, and trembling with desperation as well as affection. Illya could do no less, and if the shoulder of Napoleon's jacket grew a little moist in the minutes that followed… well it wasn't anything that Del Florio couldn't deal with.

*^*^*

These challenges, for the claiming of a sub in the Soviet System, were a complicated business, Napoleon soon came to learn. Illya was able to explain some of it, and further information could be gotten from the Soviet consulate, but Illya cautioned that anything that came from the authorities must be considered suspect. One person who would be able to supply the most detailed and current information on how these things were run _would_ be Dr Theremin, assuming he was not dead and had made it to somewhere on the western side of the Iron Curtain.

Illya seemed confident that this latter was true, and that Mistress Rockmore would know something about this. It was as Napoleon was driving them to the address Illya had for her that he divulged what he knew about the claiming process.

"It was originally designed and implemented in the early days after the Glorious Revolution, as a way to get subs away from their previously noble or wealthy Tops," he began. "The State could take away their titles and estates, but not their subs, so a way was devised for individual (party approved) Tops to make a claim for another Top's sub and 'prove' that claim by a contest of arms or loyalty."

"A contest of loyalty?" Napoleon repeated, leery of such propagandistic terminology.

"Yes, in a manner of speaking," Illya replied. "When you make your official claim for me —there will be a lot of paperwork, I am sorry to say— you will be asked to choose the method by which you will prove your claim: by individual combat —which they call 'Proof by Strength'— or by what they call 'Proof by Right'. This latter would require both of us to take part in a sort of 'Capture the Flag' type of exercise, in which I am the flag and you will be facing an opposing team of at least three to your one."

"Sounds fair," Napoleon commented blandly.

"In your case, it might be," Illya replied with a smirk, clearly buttering him up.

"That's as may be," Napoleon said, smirking back. "But, seriously, that still sounds too fair and easily winnable. What's the catch?"

"The catch is that the Party cheats, and always has," Illya said. "The game is always rigged, and the man favored by the party nearly always wins."

" _Nearly_ always?" Napoleon caught this significant word.

"There have been two, maybe three instances in my memory," Illya said, "where things did not go as expected. The Party generally tries to bury such news, so it may have happened more often than that. There are maybe a dozen or more challenges in a typical year, though there were many more in the years immediately after the revolution, and after the war as well. Most are considered commonplace and of little interest. The fact that you are a foreigner, and that I am a relatively well-placed KGB agent will raise our profile somewhat, however."

"So, you're saying that, as the contests are usually tilted toward the Party favorite," Napoleon clarified, "they're going to be tilted ten times worse in our case."

"Yes, they will," Illya answered flatly. "There is one factor in our favor, however, and that is that in all the challenges which did not go the Party's way, there was always a sub who was clearly highly motivated to stay with the unfavored Top who eventually won."

"So the sub is able to make a difference in the outcome?" Napoleon inquired.

"To some extent," Illya answered, "and depending on which type of challenge is chosen."

Pulling up to stop at a red light, Napoleon shook his head ruefully and then turned to meet Illya's eyes. "Half of me knows that we'll be better off working together, even though it may mean putting both our lives at risk," he said, "but the other half is determined to keep you out of harm's way and take all the risk myself. For the first time in my life my instincts as a Top run exactly counter to my instincts as an UNCLE agent."

"I think," Illya said with a sigh as the car moved forward again, "that you will need both sets of instincts in the ordeals to come, but that you should take Dr. Theremin's advice concerning which challenge to enter. He will know where the better chance lies today."

"You seem very certain that we're going to be able to find him," Napoleon said, pulling onto the side street leading to Miss Rockmore's apartment.

"I am," Illya answered. "I came to know him quite well, Napoleon. I learned more from him than from any other teacher I ever had, and while he may not be quite at Einstein's level, he is a real genius. I know he's wanted to get out of the USSR for a long time and that he and Clara are deeply devoted to one another. He will not have taken any undue risks and he will have headed directly to find his Top."

 

Clara Rockmore had an unpretentious penthouse in an older building, with its own extensive and beautifully gardened, private terrace. It seemed at odds with the eerie musical sounds issuing from inside as they approached.

"It sounds like she's practicing," Illya answered Napoleon's questioning look. "I hope we are not interrupting."

"Practicing what?" Napoleon asked. "Raising ghosts?"

Illya rolled his eyes and rang the doorbell. "The _theremin._ " he said. "The electronic musical instrument she is said to be a virtuoso of."

"That's a _musical instrument_?" he said dubiously just as the door opened.

"May I help…" the woman behind the door began, then her eyes fell on Illya. "Oh… It's Mr..… Kuryakin? Is that right?" Illya nodded.

"It is an honor to meet you again," he said. "May we come in?"

"Wait a moment," Napoleon said. "You've met before?"

"Mistress Rockmore," Illya said, ignoring Napoleon's question as they were led inside. "May I introduce my partner, Napoleon Solo of UNCLE. You may trust him as you have trusted me."

"And you have trusted me," Miss Rockmore said cordially, turning to shake Napoleon's hand. "Pleased to meet you Agent Solo, and as My Kuryakin has been remiss, I will fill you in. Mr. Kuryakin introduced himself to me originally when he first came to New York, to work with UNCLE. He came bearing messages from my submissive, Leon Theremin, with whom he had been working in the Soviet Union, and from whom I dearly wanted to hear."

Clara Rockmore's handshake, formal and firmly commanding, would have told Napoleon that she was a Top even if he hadn’t known already. She was tall, possessing a wiry strength in her handclasp. Her misty grey eyes gave him an assessing glance before she shifted her gaze to Illya, assessing the two of them as a pair. Napoleon could not say what conclusion she was able to draw.

“Gentlemen, I must tell you that I have a good idea of why you’ve come,” she said next. “But I’m sorry to say that you will be disappointed. I know the kind of work Leon does, and I know better than to think I have any privacy, even here. Surely you understand why I may not… express myself freely on certain topics.”

Napoleon was already extracting the jammer from his inside suit pocket as Misstress Rockmore spoke, while Illya made a gesture dismissing her concerns, drawing her attention instead to the beautifully gardened terrace.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “For now, I would very much like to get a little fresh air, and as the day is fine, why don’t we continue our conversation in the garden? I see that your green thumb is in no way diminished.”

It took her a moment, but it clicked for her when Napoleon waggled the jamming device in his hand, its fly-swatter like antenna deployed and making its purpose clearer.

"Oh…" she said. "Oh, of course! You must see how I finally got my climbing roses to cooperate, Illya. It took years, but they're finally growing the way I wanted."

"Excellent!" Illya said, letting Mistress Rockmore lead the way back out to her roof garden, to a long bench situated below a screen of climbing roses, just now forming their first buds. There was a small side table beside the bench, and here Napoleon set the jammer to working, its little antenna swiveling this way and that. After a moment a small green light lit up on its base.

"You may speak freely now, Mistress Rockmore," Napoleon said. "Not even Dr. Theremin's most advanced bugs will get past this."

Napoleon tried not to feel slighted that she looked to Illya for confirmation before she began to speak, reminding himself that she'd only known him for a few minutes.

"I hope you will not take offence," she began. "It's not that I don't trust you or UNCLE, but I really don't have much information, and what I do know… I doubt it will be of much use to you and further, I simply cannot risk sharing it with anyone, even you."

Napoleon had an argument for this, but Illya raised a hand to preempt him. "It's all right," he said. "Given Leon's probable current disposition, it may be for the best that you keep such information to yourself. In truth, rather than requesting information from you, it may suit our needs better to ask you to deliver some information from us."

"Very well," Mistress Rockmore said, tentatively.

"First, we want you to know that UNCLE is willing to offer both of you any protection you might need, without any 'strings' attached," Illya began. "If Leon ever wished to volunteer his services to UNCLE, they would, of course, accept them gratefully, but they will not insist."

"All right," said Mistress Rockmore.

"Aside from this," Illya continued, "Napoleon and I, we would ask a favor of a more personal nature. If Leon would be willing to meet with Napoleon, later, at a time and place of his choosing and offer him some advice of a non-technical nature."

"Why just Napoleon?" their hostess asked. "Why not both of you?"

Illya grimaced briefly. "In a week's time I will be back in Moscow," he said. "They've recalled me to take Leon's place in the KGB technical division."

Mistress Rockmore's face had been carefully controlled up to now, but Napoleon saw her expression reveal honest dismay at this news.

"Oh, Illya, I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

"There was no way you could have," Illya replied. "But Leon surely did know that I would be chosen to replace him. He gave me as much time here as he could, and perhaps it was even enough. I… have a champion now." Napoleon did not miss the sidelong glance Illya threw in his direction, as brief as it was, and it warmed his heart.

"How do you mean?" Mistress Rockmore asked.

"My best chance of regaining my freedom will be if some Top from the West makes a 'claim' for me, as his sub," Illya explained. "He will have to undergo a challenge in order to prove that claim, and seeing as the challenge will be overseen by the Party, the odds will be strongly tilted against him, and his life will be at grave risk."

Napoleon felt the other Top's gaze upon him, assessing him more intently than before. "He is the one?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Napoleon interjected, unaccustomed to being talked over. "So you have an idea now, of the sort of advice we're going to need from Dr. Theremin."

"I do," Mistress Rockmore said, nodding slowly. "But I'm not sure how much Leon will be able to help you in this matter."

"As he knew what the consequences of his departure from the Soviet Union would be for me," Illya said, "and also knew by what means I might best escape those consequences, I believe —I hope, at any rate— that he will have taken some measures, or at least made some inquiries into the current state of affairs in the challenge system. Even if he has not taken any specific measures, his general information is still naturally more up-to-date than mine."

"Forewarned is forearmed, after all," Napoleon put in.

"Of course," Mistress Rockmore said thoughtfully.

"For now," Illya said, "you need only convey this information to Leon… should you chance to see him sometime in the near future. We will leave you with information on several secure ways to contact us, or UNCLE, should he wish to act on this information —or communicate with UNCLE for any reason."

"I'm sure Leon will want to do whatever he can to help you," Mistress Rockmore replied. "And he may well indeed have made some preparations for your benefit. I know you were often in his thoughts, Illya," she said, coming to place her hand gently on his knee. If Napoleon had been Illya's Top in truth, she ought to have asked permission before touching him at all, but he was not, and so he only frowned ever so briefly. The other Top did not miss it, however.

"The two of you," she said, glancing between Illya and Napoleon. "You are not actually Top and sub, are you?"

"No, ma'am," Napoleon confirmed.

"And yet," she said, brow furrowed, "you are taking a terrible risk on his behalf."

"We're partners," Illya explained. "And in our business… that's everything, really."

*^*^*^*


	2. Chapter 2

The week before Illya had to leave was spent tying up loose ends —which involved an astonishing amount of paperwork— closing up Illya's flat, which Napoleon found particularly painful, and improving Napoleon's Russian, which was serviceable, but little more than that. It was not equal to the confounding amount of paperwork involved in making his claim for Illya, which was naturally all in Russian and which the term 'kafkaesque' didn't even begin to cover.

Illya's aid in translating and then explaining what was required (and correcting Napoleon's mistakes in filling them out) was invaluable and the whole business left Napoleon wondering how he would be able to manage any part of his job now, without his partner at his side. This was part of the reasoning he used in explaining to Master Waverly why he was requesting a leave of absence for an unknown date and for an unknown period of time, during which he would be visiting the Soviet Union.

Waverly was not pleased, but even he could see that refusing would only cost him another agent.

"Not to question your loyalty to our organization," he said unhappily, "but your actions mean that UNCLE is risking not one but two of its top agents now."

"Surely you realize, sir," Napoleon countered, "that the Soviets are never going to let Illya return to UNCLE, but if this plan works then we won't be losing any agents at all."

" _If_ , Mr. Solo," Waverly warned. "Only _if_."

"It's always 'if' sir," Napoleon replied, daring. "We're in the 'if' business, but Illya and I, we're your best chance of turning that 'if' into a reality."

Master Waverly granted his request in the end and even put UNCLE's various resources at his disposal, in the hopes of improving his chances of success. Much of Napoleon's time, in the days that followed, were therefore spent reading the volumes of files the research department turned up regarding the Soviet challenge system.

All of these activities guaranteed that Napoleon's and Illya's last week together flew by with dismaying rapidity. The Friday before Illya's Monday morning departure was so busy that they worked through dinner and stayed late at UNCLE, departing at last through empty, darkened corridors. Napoleon did not miss how Illya was taking in what might be his last sight of the UNCLE facilities he'd come to know as his second home over the last several years. He remained silent and pensive as Napoleon drove them both home, and Napoleon gave him his space.

"You know," Illya broke his silence at last as they pulled into the parking garage under their apartment building. "You are going to have to… make an impression when you appear at the challenge hearing. You must appear to be the most domineering, Alpha Top in the Room. There will likely be members of the Command Staff, possibly even the Polit-bureau, there —men who are accustomed to intimidating everyone in their presence."

"I figured," Napoleon said as he pulled the car into its space and shut off the ignition. "I believe I know how to make an impression." The words might have been self confident as always, but Napoleon's tone was meant to let Illya know he understood the seriousness of the issue. Illya nodded in reply, but his expression darkened as he remained unmoving in the passenger seat, evidently wrestling with something.

"I, on the other hand," he continued after a spell, "must appear as nothing less than the most deferential, loyal and obedient submissive possible. And I must retain this demeanor without slip-up as long as I am there. It must not be seen as an 'act' in any way."

Now Napoleon nodded silently, making no move yet to leave the silent, darkened space of the parked car. "Same holds true for me," he said after a moment. "Though you'll have to maintain it somewhat longer." Illya's nod was barely discernible, but Napoleon did not miss it. He had a feeling that they both knew where this conversation was leading, in a roundabout way, but as the Top, for the interim at least, it fell to Napoleon to carry it to the next step.

"Where are you sleeping tonight?" he asked eventually, aware that he was already shifting into his role.

"I… thought I'd sleep in my flat," Illya answered, but Napoleon could see the wheels turning even as he answered, already figuring out where this was going. "They haven't taken the furniture out yet."

"So you were planning on sleeping on your bare mattress," Napoleon said, shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. You're going to sleep with me, the next three nights, and tomorrow…" Napoleon could feel his resolve firming, the Alpha Top coming to the fore. "Tomorrow, we're going to spend the whole day getting into the right frame of mind."

"Yes," said Illya, sounding resolved, but not particularly submissive. "That is probably for the best. I won't fight you on this." In the darkened car Napoleon could hear but not see Illya's wry smile.

"You say so now," Napoleon replied, exiting the car at last, "but if you don't end up resenting the hell out of me several times tomorrow, then I won't be doing my job."

 

It was late, so the two of them did little more than share a brief nightcap and head to bed, though Napoleon insisted that Illya sleep naked beside him in the bed. Already Napoleon's manner of addressing Illya had changed, from suggesting to ordering, though in a casual, entitled manner, rather than domineering. The non-submissive Illya would have bristled after only a few minutes of such treatment, and Illya did bristle at first, internally, but he recognised what Napoleon was doing and modified his own behavior accordingly.

This alone would hardly be sufficient, Illya knew, neither tomorrow nor while under the watchful eye of his Soviet masters. He had a hard, slow transition ahead of him, and he knew full well that Napoleon was right. He would resent the hell out of Napoleon, mainly during the first part of the day, however. As an incentive, Illya reminded himself that as soon as he let himself become submerged in his sub space, he would find everything Napoleon did with and to him to be enjoyable.

This was nothing more than an article of faith, however, and difficult to hold onto in the moment. Even when Napoleon had insisted that Illya come to bed naked, all he had thought was how inconvenient and humiliating it would be. He'd actually hesitated just a fraction of a second, but Napoleon had seen it, and the look that had passed between then in that split second told Illya everything about what Napoleon would and wouldn't tolerate. Illya would not hesitate again without consequences.

Strictly speaking, Illya's promise that he would not fight had been a complete lie and he knew it. The fight would be internal, but he would be fighting nonetheless, and Napoleon would not fail to notice. Now Illya berated himself, which was also pointless, for having spoken less than the truth and for having balked, almost, at his Top's entirely reasonable request that he remain unclothed in his bed.

There was nothing particularly unpleasant about lying naked in bed next to Napoleon, enclosed in the warmth of his arms. Napoleon's tee shirt and boxers were soft and comfortable against his own naked skin, as were the bedclothes —Napoleon never bought anything but the best. He should be falling into an unencumbered sleep, basking in the luxury of Napoleon's bed, but instead here he was see-sawing between resentment and guilt —yet another thing he could berate himself about.

"Go to sleep, Illya," came Napoleon's sleepy voice from out of the dark. "It's late, but not too late for a spanking."

Illya apologized with a sigh, schooling himself to focus on the moment and not his anxieties. The mattress was comfortable, the various textures against his skin soft and pleasant and Napoleon's arm over his waist heavy and constraining, in the best way possible. It was when Illya realized that this last comfort would be unavailable to him in only three days' time that he found his focus at last. This he would cherish with all his heart, and hold it there for as long as he lived. He slept, at last, with this focus and slept very well indeed.

He awoke in a much better frame of mind, luxuriating in the warmth and comforts of the bed and his bedmate. Still only half awake, he snuggled instinctively closer to Napoleon's enclosing presence, and felt the arm that enclosed him tighten in its embrace. Eyes still closed, Illya felt the soft press of lips at the back of his neck, and now Napoleon's hand began to wander, caressing as well as restraining. Illya could not but respond, letting a little sighing moan escape.

A sleepy and yet decidedly aroused chuckle came in answer, and Napoleon's exploring hand began to explore somewhat more purposefully. It did not merely brush over his nipples, but tweaked them each gently —enough to ramp up Illya's arousal so that when Napoleon's hand moved further south it found his cock already hardening. Illya's first and natural instinct, however, was to still himself against the desire to writhe wantonly against his Top, and to silence the moans forming in his throat.

"I don't know who you think you're hiding from," came Napoleon's voice in his ear, rough with sleep and desire, "but it certainly isn't me. No hiding, Illyushka. You're mine. Give me everything." He punctuated this statement with a slight squeeze to Illya's cock and Illya gave up a brief sobbing groan in response, helpless to do otherwise.

"That's more like it," Napoleon said, rolling onto his back and hauling Illya up to lie on top of him. The hardness of Napoleon's cock, now lying pressed against Illya's own, was readily apparent, and Illya didn't even try to stop himself from thrusting against it. Napoleon thrust right back, lifting his hips so that Illya's legs opened and fell to either side of him. 

With a lustful growl, Napoleon took hold of Illya's face to kiss him, possessive and impassioned. Illya drank it all in, welcoming the wet heat and plundering tongue battling with his own. The kiss broke off when Napoleon's hands wandered down to take hold of Illya's buttocks, grinding their cocks together more firmly still so that both of them gasped at the sensation.

"As pleasant as this is," Napoleon said when he'd recovered his voice. "I believe I'd like to start my day with a blow job. I suspect you can manage that, yes?"

Illya literally had to bite his tongue to stop the sarcastic reply which formed naturally on his lips at Napoleon's question. Of course, he had almost certainly framed his request in the most provocative way possible, and the fact that Illya acted promptly to fulfill his Top's request without a word did not cover his fleeting smirk.

"That's one," Napoleon said calmly. "I'll let you know 'one what' after my blow job. And you know, of course, that you're not to come without my express permission."

"Of course not," Illya said, trying for obedient, or at least, not sarcastic.

"You're going to have to do better than that, Illya," Napoleon chided.

Illya sighed and pulled himself upright, still straddling Napoleon's thighs. "I will," he said, sincerely earnest now. "I promise, Napoleon."

His Top nodded, evidently pleased. "Close your eyes now," he said. "Keep them closed until I say otherwise."

"All right," Illya said, complying immediately but with an uneasy swallow just the same. Given the last exchange he didn't dare do anything else, but Illya both dreaded and loved being blindfolded.

A gentle touch on his thigh told him that Napoleon understood. "Tell me your safeword," he said, commanding yet gentle.

"Brezhnev," Illya replied. "I will continue to use Brezhnev."

"Excellent," Napoleon said. "Carry on, then."

Centering himself, Illya focused on the touch, sounds, and smells around him. Sitting astride his lover, it was easy to find his hips and slide his boxers down them, and an altogether appealing task to find Napoleon's cock by touch and smell.

"Ah, my Illyushka," Napoleon sighed as Illya's lips brushed his shaft. There were fingers in Illya's hair now, caressing at times, tugging at others. Illya hummed with pleasure, absorbing the taste and texture of Napoleon's sex. Deprived of one sense, he feasted on the others.

Napoleon groaned loudly when Illya finally took the hard length into his mouth, slowly swallowing it down to the root. Napoleon's fingers in his hair were clutching now, almost painfully, but Illya welcomed the additional sensation, moaning softly around the cock filling his mouth.

Illya didn't miss his vision at all now and quickly lost himself in his task. Starting slowly, he drew back from Napoleon's cock, then lowered himself, taking it all in again, then drawing away once more. With a musician's perfect sense of timing, he could stretch this 'accelerando' out for as long as he wished… or as long as his Top wished. Illya stopped at the gentle touch on his face, lifting his mouth away and waiting to hear what his Top wanted.

"Now…" Napoleon began a little breathlessly. "Now, hands behind your back. Let me do the work."

"As you wish," Illya said, eyes still obediently closed, even as he felt another little lurch of desirous dread. He moved back down Napoleon's legs a bit to put himself at a more comfortable angle and clasped his hands behind his back. Then he leaned forward once more to lower his mouth over Napoleon's erect cock. He had very little control now… but then that was the idea, wasn't it?

Napoleon's hands were back in his hair, stroking affectionately as he began to thrust gently into Illya's mouth. "That's perfect," he murmured. "You're perfect, my Illyushka, just taking it… taking my cock…"

And there was a certain serenity to just taking it, Illya knew and was coming to discover once again. He could let everything else go, trust Napoleon, and know that he would always be safe. He could open his throat and let Napoleon use him, take pleasure from him, and love him. Nothing could be more freeing; nothing else held such serenity and such arousal... and Illya had to remember that he wasn't allowed to come.

He could have, easily, without laying so much as a finger on himself. He could feel himself growing closer, but his Top's pleasure and instructions had to come first. Focusing on Napoleon alone, he pushed his own desire and needs into the background. He must be only a vessel and when Napoleon's climax came, a share of it would be his as well. That moment was drawing near; the harshness of Napoleon's breaths and the accelerating tempo of his thrusts into Illya's mouth were clear indicators. Illya moaned with desire at the salty taste of his Top's release, and felt it as his own.

He remained with his mouth over Napoleon's softening cock, however, until a nudge on his shoulder gave him permission to withdraw. Eyes still closed, hands still locked behind his back, Illya let himself be drawn into his Top's arms, opened to his plundering kiss and basked in the tranquility of his submission. This had been easy, however, and Illya felt sure that his tasks would become more difficult as the day went on.

"Perfectly lovely, as always, my Illyushka," Napoleon said at last. "Now for a shower and breakfast, and then we'll discuss the rest of the day. Illya nodded, but already he was feeling some of his tranquility seep away. Contemplating what the rest of the day might bring left him uncertain and anxious. He was sure that Napoleon was aware of it, but he guided Illya through their shower without saying another word about it, with the exception of letting Illya know that he'd have the convenience of an actual blindfold once they were done with the shower. Illya knew better than to ask him if he'd be wearing it all day.

Once they were showered, and Napoleon dressed (Illya remained unclothed —save for the blindfold and his collar— and he knew better than to ask about that too) Napoleon had Illya settle himself on a kneeling bench in the kitchen while he cooked breakfast. The simple mundanity of it was comforting and the sounds of Napoleon cooking, the easily identifiable smells of bacon, butter, eggs, and toast made the activities as clear to Illya as if he had his eyes open. 

By the time Napoleon had laid the single place setting and moved Illya's kneeling bench to in front of the table, Illya had a good idea that he was going to be fed his breakfast. It was a common enough practice between Tops and subs, but Illya had never had any relationship with a Top that went beyond a couple of evenings of play. He'd always thought it a little ridiculous, but now he began to see the profound psychological effect it could have. He wanted to fight it —hated the idea that he could be willingly made so helpless— but could do nothing to object short of ripping the blindfold off and bailing on the whole exercise.

Instead he compliantly accepted the forkfuls of eggs and bites of bacon and buttered toast that were pressed to his lips. It was in every way the same food he would have eaten for breakfast himself and he was hungry, but every bite seemed a blow against his very autonomy.

"You think I don't know how hard this is for you, Illushka?" Napoleon asked, gently caressing his cheek between bites. "I know it's hard and you're doing very well, but you're still fighting. I can see it in the way you're holding your body." When Napoleon laid a hand on Illya's shoulder, massaging the muscles there briefly, Illya, too could feel how tensely he was holding them. He sighed and slumped a little.

"I know you're trying," Napoleon said. "But that's not going to be good enough. Don't try, Illya; just be."

Illya's initial reaction to this advice was a wave of seething resentment, but it passed in a moment and, in its passing, left a remnant of sense. Don't react; don't resent; don't anticipate; just be. Could he do that? Well, since he was going to have to, he'd better learn how.

Could he forget what it _meant_ that someone else was giving him the sustaining nourishment he needed, bite by bite, simply accept that he was getting what he needed and that it was even fairly tasty, and leave it at that? Heaving a sigh, Illya willed the tension from his body and in the same breath narrowed his thoughts to the simple moment-by-moment reality. It was, indeed, easier to lose himself in the soft crunch and buttery flavor of the toast Napoleon fed him, without the use of his eyes. There was much to contemplate in the harmony of the flavors of the eggs, pepper, and bacon alone.

There was enough to sustain him, too. Napoleon knew his appetite, and frequently chided him like a Jewish (or Italian) grandmother about how he was too thin. He fed Illya till he was full, but not too full, then wiped his mouth when he was done and left him kneeling while he went to wash the dishes. Left to his own thoughts, Illya enjoyed the lingering flavors of breakfast on his tongue, and the pleasant domestic sounds of Napoleon doing the washing up. After a bit he asked Illya to come help dry, which he was happy to do. It was an absorbing task without his vision, but one he was entirely capable of doing.

All of this was engaging enough that Illya quite forgot his anxiety about what else was to come in the day, but it all came back when they finished in the kitchen and Napoleon lead him to the sofa to explain what was next. They'd barely sat down, however, when Napoleon made a thoughtful noise and stood again. A moment later Illya heard the sound of Napoleon rummaging in some drawer, and then he was sitting at Illya's side again.

"It didn't bother me when you were Topping me," he said. "And when I Topped you previously, I figured I could just ignore it, but I can't do that anymore." There was the subtle yet unmistakable sound of tape being dispensed and a second later a slight pressure against his collar, over the spot where the enameled emblem of the Soviet Union was fastened.

"You're mine, and I won't see another Top's, or another State's claim on you," Napoleon continued. "I won't endanger you by removing your collar, though you have no idea how much I want to, but this electric tape covers the emblem nicely, and if I don't look too hard, it blends right in with your collar. I'll take the tape off when we go out, because I know better than to think you —and we— aren't being watched, but I won't have it when we're in private."

The fierce possessiveness in Napoleon's voice touched something primordial deep in Illya's psyche. It made him want to fall at Napoleon's feet and worship him, but then the bit about 'going out' registered itself on Illya's consciousness, and all the submissive tranquility he'd attained over the last few hours shattered like glass.

"Going out?" he sputtered, sitting up straight, eyes wide open behind the blindfold.

Napoleon's first response was a deep sigh and Illya could tell he was shaking his head in dismay. "That's two," he said. "That's strokes with a cane I'm counting, in case you're curious."

"But…!" Illya begged, aware that he was just making things worse but unable to stop himself. "I can't… You can't…"

"Hush now, Illyushka," Napoleon's hand on his shoulder was heavy, pressing him back down into the sofa, and also calming. "Take a moment to think about it. You know I'm not going to endanger your health by making you go out naked, though you may not like what I give you to wear. You also know that I would never allow you to be identified in a… compromising situation. We're both still UNCLE agents and have to work within certain restrictions. That's not going to change."

The simple sense of Napoleon's argument, and his calm, implacable tone relaxed Illya to some degree, though he remained deeply troubled at the prospect of going out in public. He nodded unhappily.

"What you've forgotten here," Napoleon's voice was more admonishing now. "And what's going to cost you three more strokes, is that you're supposed to be trusting me, to take care of you, protect you, and keep you safe. We _will_ be going out, but you will be completely safe. You're going to have to trust me on that."

"Yes, Napoleon," Illya answered, truly contrite now. He did trust Napoleon with his life, with his heart, _and_ with his submission, but that latter was going to be harder than it seemed. "I… I am sorry."

"Sshh," Napoleon said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead tenderly. "There's no need to be sorry. I'm asking you… really pushing you, into situations that are well beyond anything you've ever done, or wanted to do before, and you still have your safeword, Illya. You need to use it if it's really too much."

"You know that's a luxury I won't have back in Russia," Illya said, downcast.

"No," Napoleon answered, "but we aren't there yet. All you need to think about is what's going on at the moment. You leave all the rest to me."

Illya nodded, letting go a heavy sigh. "I knew that this would be difficult, but I did not realize just how difficult it would be."

"I had a feeling," Napoleon said. "But I have no doubts that you'll get there in the end. Everything you need is in here," he laid a hand over Illya's heart. "You just need to find it." He leaned in closer then, to kiss Illya on the mouth, and it was as if he was breathing serenity directly into Illya's soul. He drank it up until Napoleon gradually ended the kiss, his hand gently caressing Illya's face.

"Now," he said calmly. "I'm going to sit here and read the paper while you kneel here beside me, and if you're very good, I'll read you the funnies."

Compliantly, Illya slipped down to kneel at his Top's feet and after a moment or two began to feel himself grow comfortable in the position. He relaxed and leaned against Napoleon's legs, coming eventually to lay his head on his knees. He sighed with honest pleasure when Napoleon began to run his fingers through Illya's hair, caressing him absently as he read. Any thoughts of how demeaning this might look were quickly extinguished by the soul-deep sense of peace that settled upon him. Illya had never in his life imagined, kneeling here in contented submission, that he would ever find any pleasure in an act like this, but it was something more profound than pleasure that he felt now.

The passage of time became irrelevant as Illya found himself contentedly immersed in the sounds of the ticking clock and Napoleon making little commentary hums and clucks as he made his way through the paper. Napoleon's touch, gently stroking his hair or caressing an ear kept him in that moment, safe and protected.

"I can't tell you," Napoleon said, laying down the paper eventually, "how sweet it is to have you here like this. I've never had this with anyone before, Illya, never wanted it… didn't ever think I'd ever do anything like this with you… and it's better than I ever imagined."

"I… would have to say the same," Illya murmured, still relaxed against Napoleon's leg.

He felt Napoleon's posture change then, and the fingers in his hair became possessive. "We're going to do this, Illya," he said. "There's no way anyone's taking you from away me now. Not after this."

"No," Illya echoed, thrilling at the dark ferocity in his Top's voice. "Not after this."

"I'm going to fuck you now," Napoleon said, lifting Illya by the shoulders to kiss him hard. Strangely, none of this seemed sudden or unexpected to Illya, but he could feel himself growing hard almost instantly. Napoleon stood and pressed something —ah ha, a small tube of lube— into his hand.

"I need to get something from the other room," Napoleon said. "Prepare yourself."

Illya found himself momentarily stunned at just how hot that was, and how very hard he suddenly was, but he complied with his Top's instructions. He was kneeling on the sofa, thighs spread wide and two well lubed fingers up his ass when he heard Napoleon approach again.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph…" he heard Napoleon say, a trifle unsteady. "That's… there should be laws against anything that hot."

"Just following instructions," Illya said, not the least bit smug.

"That's six," Napoleon growled and there was the sound of a belt being opened, trousers unzipped.

"What!?" Illya cried as his fingers were removed. Then there were grasping hands on his hips and then he was impaled, filled, and claimed by Napoleon's cock.

Illya threw back his head and shouted, an animal noise of lust and surrender and Napoleon held him still, letting Illya's body become accustomed to his presence until it seemed like an intrusion no longer. Then Napoleon began thrusting, deep and hard. Within moments, Illya's very breaths came to be dictated by the driving rhythm of Napoleon's thrusts. He let his head fall onto the back of the sofa, giddy in the freedom of letting Napoleon use him.

"Remember," Napoleon commanded, voice harsh with arousal and exertion. "No coming!"

Illya's groan was one of mixed frustration and ecstasy in his submission. He was Napoleon's. He came at Napoleon's pleasure alone, not his. Illya's pleasure belonged to Napoleon, along with every other part of him.

But Illya was allowed to partake in his Top's pleasure. When he felt Napoleon's thrusts become faster and more urgent, heard him cry out, "Oh… fuck, Illya!" in his climax, Illya knew that completion was his to share in, and so he did and groaned aloud with the pure bliss of it.

"Jesus… Jesus Illya," Napoleon was murmuring as they both caught their breaths, feeling their heartbeats gradually begin to slow. "God in heaven, you have no idea…" he said, reaching up to stroke Illya's hair and then straightening, not pulling himself from Illya's body yet.

"Don't be so sure," Illya mumbled, pleasure saturated. "Only please do not give me another stroke for that."

"Not for that, no," said Napoleon, a fond smile evident in his tone. He leaned over Illya to kiss him on the shoulder, then pulled back, letting himself slip out. Before Illya had even a moment to miss the comforting sensation of fullness, something else came to fill him, cool and smooth and not too uncomfortable when Napoleon asked Illya to stand.

"I know how much you like having me inside you," Napoleon said, drawing him close to kiss him deeply, then pulling his head down to rest on Napoleon's shoulder. "So now you'll have me there all day."

All day? Illya was still hard, and just thinking about Napoleon's cum trapped inside him with this butt plug made him harder.

"I can see you like that idea," Napoleon said with a chuckle. "You'll like sitting down even more; Come on, sit next to me on the sofa and I'll read you the funnies, like I promised. You were _definitely,_ very good."

The fact that Napoleon actually knew which comics Illya took interest in was just one more thing, along with the warmth of Napoleon's body where Illya leaned up against it, Napoleon's strong arm around his shoulders, and the gentle, arousing pressure of the butt plug inside him. With attention to detail and some dramatic flair, Napoleon recounted the antics of _Beetle Bailey, Alley Oop, Linus_ and _Lucy_. He knew somehow that Illya had long ago lost interest in the ins and outs of life on _Gasoline Alley_ , but had somehow gotten reluctantly drawn into the adventures of _Mark Trail_. He actually cracked Illya up with his description of the latest prank pulled by _The Katzenjammer Kids_ , and surprised Illya with a few of the more interesting facts from _Ripley's Believe It Or Not_.

"You sure you haven't missed your calling?" Illya asked when Napoleon finally laid the paper down.

"Alas, the world of entertainment and comedy must do without me," Napoleon said, "as I have chosen to answer a higher calling. At the moment, however, I fear its nature's call I'm needing to answer at the moment. What about you?"

*^*^*^


	3. Chapter 3

Illya did, in fact, have to pee, so they went to take care of this together, Napoleon holding Illya's cock when he went to relieve himself. This was not as awkward as it might have been, as both Napoleon and Illya had had to endure similar 'indignities' when injured in the field. Napoleon cleaned them both up after this, then led Illya back to the bedroom and sat him on the bed while he rummaged through his closets.

"I guess I'll start with the essentials," Napoleon said, moving to Illya's left, where his toy closet was. "And see what goes with that."

Illya felt something pressed into his hands, assessed first that it was of leather and second that it comprised something like a bag. Further exploration revealed strategically placed openings —two small ones over the ears, a mask shaped one, now covered with another piece of leather snapped into place over it that would be for eyes, one below that for the nose, and a larger one which could be zipped closed below that, for the mouth. The lacings up the back made its purpose crystal clear.

"The hood will allow you to be seen in public, but not identified," Napoleon explained, but Illya got it already, feeling his anxiety and anticipation rise in equal measures. To his credit, Illya did not balk even for a second at the leather harness Napoleon gave him to put on first. The straps went over his shoulders, crossed over his back and chest, and passed between his legs, where it included a component which enclosed and supported his genitals, and which kept his butt plug secure. Next Napoleon handed him a garment which seemed to be something like harem pants —silky and sheer and fairly voluminous— and an altogether ornamental vest, decorated with swirling patterns of braid-work that Illya could feel under his fingers.

Then there were sandals, flimsy and no doubt ridiculous looking, but fastening securely to his feet, Illya noticed. If he did have to run or do anything active they would stay on his feet and not flop around uselessly. In fact, Illya realized, the whole outfit was like that. Napoleon had promised him that he would keep Illya safe, and in this getup, as provocative as it was, Illya would still be able to render himself ready for action in a matter of seconds. The final touch left Illya profoundly grateful and chagrined that he had ever doubted his Top.

"This looks fairly decorative," Napoleon said, fastening the bejeweled ankle sheath just above Illya's left foot, "but the stiletto in there is no theater prop. You have to know that I'd never let you go out unarmed. You are a beauty, but a deadly one and I wouldn't want anyone seeing you to imagine otherwise."

Illya did not think that he would be risking another stroke to reach for his Top's face so that he could kiss it, and he was not mistaken. The kiss was sweet and lingering, and at its conclusion Napoleon told Illya to close his eyes, slipped the blindfold off and the leather hood on. Napoleon took a moment or two tugging it into place, then, after checking that Illya was comfortable and could breathe freely, pulled the laces tight and tied them.

"All right then," Napoleon said, dusting off his hands with satisfaction. "Stand up and let's have a look at you." Illya did as instructed, feeling the butt plug shift within him but held secure in the harness, and the silky fabric of the harem pants caressed his legs pleasantly.

"Turn around, please," Napoleon instructed next and Illya complied, confirming how securely the sandals clung to his feet. Napoleon gave an altogether pleased sigh.

"Every Top in the street who sees me with you on my leash today will know that _I'm_ the luckiest Top in New York… and maybe the world."

Unaccustomed as he was to praise which did not come with an ulterior motive, it took a moment for the word 'leash' to register on Illya's consciousness, but the soft snick of the leash being fastened to his collar brought it home to him with a lurch. He'd never in his life been leashed before and the immediate associations that came to him were of being restrained, controlled and little better than caged. Feeling the actual tug of a leash on his collar now, however, and knowing whose hand held the other end, left Illya with a wholly different set of impressions instead.

Being his own man, a citizen of the world and an agent of UNCLE meant being subject to a host of duties, responsibilities and obligations. Illya felt these things no differently than anyone else, and therefore thought little of them, even when they weighed heavily upon him. Being on the end of Napoleon's leash, however, was like having every bit of that weight lifted away. The leash's very public declaration that he was _not_ his own man ought to have felt debasing in the worst way, but instead it was freeing, beyond what Illya had words to express.

Something in his manner caught Napoleon's attention now, and Illya felt his hand on his shoulder, grasping it gently. "You okay?" he asked.

Illya nodded. "Yes, I am well," he replied. "Just... this is something new for me."

"Me too, _tovarisch_ ," Napoleon said warmly, stroking his arm. "But it's a good kind of new."

"Yes," Illya said, leaning close to his Top. "It is."

Good as it was, Illya felt himself become instantly hyper-aware of his surroundings the moment they left Napoleon's flat. There were tiny bells on his sandals which tinkled faintly as he walked down the corridor, a step or two behind his Top's left shoulder, and entered the elevator. Illya felt the drop as they began to descend.

"You haven't asked me what color your outfit is," Napoleon commented in the close silence.

"You will inform me if you wish me to know," Illya replied tranquilly. He could hear Napoleon make an approving noise in response and a moment later felt a kiss at the back of his neck.

"What a perfect wonder you are, my Illya," he said with a smile Illya could hear. "As if I could put you in anything but black. The pants are all black, and the vest is black too, but with a little bit of gold in the braid-work. Naturally, the leather is all black as well."

Illya was glad that Napoleon could not see the chagrin on his face, for he'd assumed that Napoleon would dress him in some ridiculously gaudy outfit, forgetting somehow that it was impossible for his Top to do anything in bad taste. The picture Illya had of himself now underwent a significant transformation, and suddenly Illya felt quite pleased with the image he must now present. He felt as if he were making some sort of grand entrance as the elevator came to a stop and the door opened.

Stepping out into the lobby, Illya took in the new scents of stale cigar smoke and whatever they used to clean the floors. He stayed at Napoleon's shoulder as they crossed this space and Illya knew just when the doorman opened the doors in front of them, partially because of the wave of sounds and smells from the street, and partially because of the doorman's stuttered greeting as they approached. It was Napoleon's name he spoke, stumbling over the words in surprise, but not Illya's, because he had no idea who Illya was, despite the fact that he opened the doors for Illya as often as he did for Napoleon. The freedom of this anonymity was heady.

"I would like people to know that you are not to speak with them," Napoleon said as they paused just outside the door, "and that they are not to speak to you, so I'm going to zip the mouth closed, but if you need to speak just touch the zipper there and I'll open it for you."

Illya nodded in compliance, then again when Napoleon asked if he could breathe well enough. Illya didn't mind it at all, feeling somehow even more protected with the whole of his face hidden. As they set out Napoleon reminded him of the steps leading down from their building and he continued to murmur quiet instructions and guidance as they made their way down the street. At first, Illya tried to picture the street and its shops in his mind's eye, guessing at their progress, but soon found this attempt to be futile. The smells and sounds around him served as a better indicator of their surroundings and focusing on these put him back in that moment by moment headspace.

He gradually became aware, catching the occasional remark or interrupted conversation, that people were noticing him, too. There was nothing unusual about a decoratively dressed sub being led down the street on a leash, but he, it was coming to dawn on Illya, was no ordinary decoratively dressed sub. Napoleon's praise was no mere flattery, for he _was_ beautiful and deadly, and though others who saw him might look and lust and desire him for themselves, the leash made it clear that he was not to be had.

Illya found himself unconsciously adopting the upright and graceful posture he'd employed as a young gymnast, and remembered how he'd felt the eyes of the judges and spectators upon him in those days, and known himself to be among the best. He walked at Napoleon's side now with poise and dignity, the object of admiration for the whole street and enjoyed it far more than he'd expected.

He was aware only in passing of their progress down the block, noting only when they stopped. First there was the greengrocers, where Napoleon always chatted up the proprietor's old mother in Italian, then the butchers -obvious by the smells and sounds of the cleaver striking the chopping block. The bakery where Napoleon claimed the best baguettes were to be gotten was evident half a block away by smell, though the tobacconist only became apparent once they had opened the door and stepped inside.

Here Napoleon bought a pack of Silk Cuts and a magazine —probably that men's fashion magazine which he refused to subscribe to, but bought every issue of, regardless. Well, Illya would have to admit now that Napoleon had no monopoly on vanity in their relationship.

They stopped to sit for a short rest and for Napoleon to smoke one of his Silk Cuts, in a small park, evident by the sound of trees rustling in the spring breeze, dogs barking, the clatter of pigeons' wings. Illya sat beside him on the bench, simply being an object of admiration for all who saw him.

"I'd like to stop at Korngold's and get a couple of their sandwiches for lunch," Napoleon said when he'd extinguished his cigarette, which Illya could identify from the unpleasant smoldering cigarette butt smell, "but I'm going to ask you to make a choice first. You can eat on your own, through the mask, at the deli, or we can get the sandwiches to go and we'll eat at home, but I'll feed you."

 _Oh the fiendishness of the man!_ Illya smiled wryly to himself as Napoleon unzipped his mouth to hear his answer. Did he value his independence so much that he would prefer to eat in public while wearing this hood? Alternatively, was he willing to admit that being fed by Napoleon's hand was not so bad… and possibly even quite pleasant? In the end there was no real question.

"Let us eat at home, please, Napoleon," he said, acquiescing. He would swear that he could actually feel the beam of Napoleon's grin as he bent to kiss Illya's mouth through the opening in the mask.

"Lunch at home it is," Napoleon said, preparing to zip Illya's mouth closed again. "Oh, what kind of sandwich would you like? I recommend a large lunch, as dinner will be late, after the, ah, 'main event' I have planned for this evening."

Illya nodded in understanding and requested a pastrami with Swiss on rye, knowing that Korngold's made all their deli sandwiches like a small mountain of meat and cheese. Napoleon zipped him closed then and soon brought them both to the deli where he ordered their sandwiches plus a pint of coleslaw and a couple of pieces of cheesecake.

The walk home seemed largely uneventful to Illya, though he had the sense of people passing him a bit closer than they ought on the busy sidewalk. Also, he thought he sensed a growing tension in Napoleon as they neared their own building. Hearing his Top heave a great sigh of relief as they entered the lobby confirmed his suspicions.

"Christ almighty!" Napoleon said as they waited for the elevator. "I thought I was going to have to deck somebody out there. You are _way_ too tempting for some people to keep their hands off, evidently."

Illya's mouth was still zipped closed, so he only tilted his head up in an inquisitive manner, following his Top into the elevator when he heard it arrive.

"Apparently this city is full of people who do not get the basic concept that a leashed sub is not public property," Napoleon said heatedly. "No matter how tempting… and you are devastatingly tempting. That much I have to admit."

The flush of delight that Illya felt at being the object of such bad behavior was altogether new to him and altogether pleasant. Ordinarily he loathed being noticed, and did his utmost to be essentially invisible, part of the background. Of course, much of that had to do with his occupation, but it had long been his preference by nature, even before he had become a spy. He'd never considered how being anonymous might allow him to experiment in a little exhibitionism.

"And you," Napoleon commented as they left the elevator. "You enjoyed that way too much, didn't you?" Illya nodded, sure that Napoleon was aware of his chagrined smile under the mask.

"Well," Napoleon said after a moment, "I rather enjoyed being the man holding your leash… at first, anyhow."

Back in the apartment, Napoleon put away the shopping, then lead Illya into the bedroom to change him out of his 'street-wear'. He began by sitting behind Illya on the bed to unlace the hood and, still a little giddy with all the attention, Illya's curiosity got the better of him. He knew he was standing in front of a mirror, and thought that Napoleon, still behind him, would not notice if he disregarded, for a moment only, Napoleon's command to keep his eyes closed as he removed the hood and replaced it with the blindfold. Illya caught only the barest glimpse of his reflection, pale skin adorned with black silk and leather, before a hand was clapped over his eyes.

"Ah, ah!" Napoleon chided. "That'll be two more, I'm afraid. That brings you up to what… eight strokes?"

"Yes," answered Illya, shoulders slumped, his previous euphoria vanished. How he had not considered that Napoleon would also be looking in that mirror, Illya could not fathom, but he had no one to blame but himself.

"There, there," Napoleon comforted mildly as he replaced the blindfold and removed the rest of Illya's outfit. "I figured your curiosity would be your undoing sooner or later."

Divested finally of all his clothing save for the blindfold and the butt plug —still securely in place, Illya followed Napoleon back to the kitchen where he returned to the kneeling bench and waited for Napoleon to feed him his lunch. Feeling chastened from having been caught peeking, he meekly accepted the food Napoleon placed at his lips, be it a bite of sandwich, pickle, or coleslaw or a sip of mineral water to wash it down. The food was as delicious as always, however, and soon Illya became lost in the symphony of flavors playing on his tongue —as 'conducted' by his Top.

Bite by bite, he made his way through the entirety of the sandwich, two kosher dill pickle spears and a considerable amount of coleslaw. Sated and comfortably full, Illya hoped that Napoleon did not have anything particularly active in mind next. Of course, he did not.

"For our next… activity, I want you to be in the proper state of mind," Napoleon said once he'd cleared away the remains of lunch. "You'll be prepared for my pleasure, relaxed and compliant. So you'll begin with a nice, long bath —scented, of course."

This sounded perfectly fine to Illya. He was eager to wash away the dust and grime of the city streets, along with the odd bits of lunch which had escaped Napoleon's fingers, and the time spent relaxing in the tub would also give lunch time to settle properly. He followed Napoleon to the bathroom and sat on the toilet while his Top adjusted the water temperature and added various pleasant smelling things to it as it filled. Then he had Illya stand and bend over, so that he could remove the butt plug. Illya made no overt complaint, but he was actually sorry to feel it go.

"I want you clean inside and out," Napoleon said, applying a washcloth to Illya's nether parts. "You'll be filled again soon enough, have no fear." Napoleon had played with the plug a little before removing, so that Illya's cock had begun to harden, and this prospect made it come nearly to full attention. Napoleon chuckled and tormented him further, placing a little kiss on the head over the little barbell piercing Illya had there.

"I'm going to be working in the kitchen while you're in here and I mean for you to be here for a while," Napoleon explained as he helped Illya carefully into the tub. "So if it starts to get cold and you want to run a little more hot water you may. Only keep track and don't let it overflow. Also, no playing with _my_ toys," and here he gently grasped Illya's erect cock, "and no falling asleep. This should be a meditative exercise, where you think about what it is to be my sub and about the nature of your own submission." Illya nodded, feeling his body adjust to the piping hot water Napoleon had run and basking in the comfort of it.

Napoleon hardly needed to have instructed Illya on the focus of his meditations, for as the room fell into silence after Napoleon's departure, his new submissive experiences were all Illya could think about. He had agreed to this exercise —this day-long 'practice' of what lay ahead for them in Russia— so that he would know how to 'behave' with his new Soviet masters. Things had very quickly descended… or perhaps ascended, however, into something fundamentally different and far more profound.

This was nothing to do with behavior, and everything to do with his very nature, the most private core of him. That creature was, at the moment, reveling in the silence and sensory deprivation of the bath, basking in the security of Napoleon's domination. Free of any other distractions, however, Illya's intellectual self was able to reflect upon the situation and analyze it, and he found he had a great deal to consider.

He knew now that he would not be able to merely behave submissively with the authorities into whose hands he would surrender himself soon. He must _be_ that creature which Napoleon had introduced him to today… but that was not altogether a bad thing. The submissive within him, Illya recognized now, was also the survivor. It was the core of strength at his center which could endure nearly anything. He would need that in the weeks to come.

More than that, with Napoleon as his anchor, he would be able to endure even more. If he knew, in his heart of hearts, that Napoleon was his one true Top, then Napoleon became his reason for enduring and his psychological shelter for any torment or humiliation he might be subject to back in the Soviet Union. As he came to understand the beauty of this —the very real protection that Napoleon provided him, even thousands of miles away— Illya found his submissive self and his intellectual self united in their adoration of Napoleon Solo.

Feeling the water growing tepid around him, Illya pulled out the stopper, letting some of the water run out of the tub before refilling it with hot water. The wave of fresh warmth relaxed him further and he leaned back against the smooth porcelain. Napoleon's tub was an immense, claw-footed affair and he could stretch out in it and still have the water cover his knees and most of his chest. The heated water released more of the scents from the bath oils Napoleon had added as well as making Illya's skin feel silky smooth.

It was a shame Napoleon had forbidden him to play with himself, because that would feel quite lovely about now. That was not permitted, however, and the fact that Napoleon trusted him to follow his orders enough to leave his hands unbound was just another one of the countless strands that anchored him to his Top. Illya's sense of absolute security heightened as he recalled all the ways that Napoleon had controlled him, yet always saw to his safety.

Now, for instance, Illya knew that Napoleon had not bound his hands because of the possibility of drowning in the very full bath. Napoleon would never endanger him like that. He had not truly exposed Illya in any unseemly way when they'd gone out, and made sure that Illya would still be able to protect himself. Illya remembered the stiletto at his ankle with especial fondness. Napoleon would protect him and keep him safe, but also respected his strengths and that was a truly miraculous paradox.

Of course, Illya reflected, sinking a little deeper in the warm, lavender-scented water, all this must be something of an odyssey for Napoleon as well. He, like Illya, must be calling on instincts he'd never acted upon before. Was he now meditating as well, as he chopped vegetable for the minestrone Illya could smell faintly beyond his scented bath?

They'd always had this sort of synergy, Illya reflected, his breaths growing slower and deeper as he relaxed. From the very beginning they'd found themselves working in parallel, one's strength matching the other's weakness and vice versa. It was clear now to Illya, as it had been to Napoleon earlier that morning, that theirs was a bond that the Russians would never be able to break. Napoleon was his true 'home' as he himself was for Napoleon —Illya knew that now as certainly as he knew that the Earth revolved about the sun.

He and Napoleon revolved about each other, bound by a force no less powerful than gravity itself that neither man nor government nor any other agency would be able to break. This was the image playing in Illya's mind as he drifted, fascinated and utterly serene, into unintended sleep.

*^*^*^*


	4. Chapter 4

"And that's two more, I'm afraid," woke him rather abruptly. Startled, Illya sat splashily upright and uttered a rather earthy Russian swear before he thought the better of it.

"I'd give you another for bad language," Napoleon said laughingly, "but it's an even ten now, so I think we'll leave it at that."

"My apologies," Illya said, honestly contrite. "I was meditating as you instructed, but the result was that I came to feel most relaxed and… comforted... and I am afraid that my attention to wakefulness slipped."

"Comforted?" Illya could hear the glow of pride in Napoleon's voice. "Now that's a fine thing to hear."

"It is the truth," Illya said softly, feeling Napoleon's hand in his, drawing him up. Napoleon's hands moved to frame his face the second he was standing, kissing him deeply but tenderly as well.

"I'm going to take you down deep now," Napoleon said, his voice low and compelling as he guided Illya out of the tub and began to dry him. "Probably deeper than you've ever gone before. I know you trust me… and how much you trust me, but don't forget that I'm trusting you too. I'm trusting you to use that safeword if I go too far. This isn't about what may lie in the future, but only about right now. That's all you need to consider."

"I understand," Illya said, reaching out to find his Top's heart and laying his hand there. "I won't let you hurt me."

"Ah, God, Illya," Napoleon sighed, pressing the length of Illya's body against his own. "You know you're my world… my whole world, my Illyushka. And you'd never let me hurt you, but you will let me make you suffer… just for me."

Illya felt his heart move, pressed against Napoleon's own heart. "Only for you," he said, knowing himself ready for whatever Napoleon would subject him to next. This began with Napoleon leading him to the bedroom and placing Illya on the bed on his hands and knees. There was something large and solid on the bed next to him and when he bumped his shoulder against it, realized that it was Napoleon's custom made, padded restraint frame. So there would be restrain in his future, but that was hardly a surprise now, was it?

He remained as Napoleon instructed him, hearing his Top moving about the room for a moment, then the distinctive sound of trousers being opened and unzipped. Then there were fingers being pushed into him, slick with lube. He was still considerably relaxed from the hours of wearing the butt plug, plus the bath, so the usual preparations took very little time.

"Oh, yes, you are ready for me, aren't you?" Napoleon murmured, replacing two fingers with three, stretching him wide open. Then the fingers were removed and Illya actually whimpered… and actually didn't care.

"Shh, shh," Napoleon comforted, stroking Illya's back. "I'll give you what you need… I'll give you more than you ever thought you could take… Just remember, no coming." Then he thrust himself deep into Illya and both of them groaned aloud.

Napoleon let himself rest within Illya's body for a moment, then began making small thrusts, pressing himself deeper still. "God Almighty, I think I could stay here forever," Napoleon sighed. 

_And I would let you,_ Illya thought to himself,

"But this is just a little preparation for you…" Napoleon continued with a moan and a gasp and then pulled out. Illya refrained from whimpering again, but only just barely. "For you… I have something even bigger."

Illya felt a moment of alarm, then reminded himself that he was in Napoleon's care. He drew a centering breath as Napoleon applied yet more lube to his opening, and then something —something decidedly bigger than Napoleon's cock— was pressing against his opening.

Illya could not contain his whimpers now. The size of the thing! Napoleon was pushing it in slowly and gently but still…

"I'm pretty sure that this is bigger than anything you've ever taken…" Illya nodded and Napoleon stroked his hair calming him. "You need to tell me if it's too much, all right? If it's really hurting you, if _anything_ doesn't feel right, you let me know."

"I will," Illya gasped, knowing his spoken assent was required. "It is… bigger than anything I've taken before… but I think I can manage it… I think… it will be very good…"

At the moment, the enormous intrusion into his body was uncomfortable to say the least. He'd never been stretched so far open before, never even tried to take anything so large, and it was almost terrifying… in a delicious sort of way. Illya panted through the fear, the tension, his body's instinctive rejection of the intruder, and little by little felt himself become used to it. Then Napoleon would push it in deeper still.

Illya whimpered. He begged, though he could not say what he was begging for, and all through it Napoleon soothed him, speaking soft endearments, stroking his skin and keeping him grounded. Finally, there was no more to take.

"That's it," Napoleon announced with pride. "You've taken it all, Illya. I knew you could do it. I knew you could take it… You are so very good… so perfect…"

He'd taken it all! Illya groaned with relief and felt flushed with pride. He'd never imagined feeling so full, so… taken, and, though it was a dildo and not Napoleon's cock, still it was Napoleon who'd taken him, claimed him in yet one more way.

"You know, I bought this dildo to prepare my subs for fisting," Napoleon said conversationally, still stroking Illya calmingly. "I don't suppose you've ever been fisted?" Illya shook his head.

"I'm actually glad to hear that, because I can't imagine that any of you past partners would have done it right," Napoleon continued. "And having it done wrong… well that's not something you want to experience. My Dom Master insisted that I experience it, as some Tops actually train their subs to do it to them, and for good reason. It's an incredibly intense experience, and intensely pleasurable… if done right. Someday, if you like, I'd be happy to show you."

Illya nodded, feeling the tension and discomfort of the immense dildo inside him fade, leaving him deeply aroused and deep in his subspace. Napoleon seemed to sense this, possibly watching his sub's body become gradually more relaxed.

"Think you can manage standing for a few minutes?" he asked.

Illya drew a long breath and considered it. "I think… possibly, yes," he said.

"All right, slowly now…" Napoleon helped him carefully to his feet as Illya whimpered and panted at the sensations of the dildo moving inside him. "I'll be as quick as I can," Napoleon said now, doing something, Illya thought, with rope. "We'll have you off your feet again soon enough."

Napoleon began by cuffing Illya's wrists behind his back with a pair of joined leather sleeves which prevented him from shifting or crossing his wrists. Illya moaned softly with arousal at being restrained, well past any considerations of his dignity. Next Napoleon began to go to work with the rope, starting by placing a loop over Illya's head which lay on his shoulders and passed between his legs, framing his genitals. Then Napoleon began to pull other lengths of rope around him, weaving a net tightly around his whole body. Napoleon was tying him into a rope dress.

^^^^^^  
[Like this, but without the ball gag or underwear. Decidedly NSFW!!](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/3/38/Bondage,_Gag_%26_Blindfold.JPG)

^^^^^^

He'd seen pictures of such things, possibly even seen another sub restrained in such at some club and if he happened to be in a subby state of mind, he'd always felt a twinge of envy, as he'd never found anyone who would take such pains with him. Illya sighed with profound pleasure as the ropes covered more and more of his body, passing around his cock and balls, securing the massive plug in his ass, and wrapping him tight and immobile.

Finally Napoleon tied off the ropes and placed one more set of cuffs on his sub, on his thighs, just above his knees. These he left unattached for the moment, and placed an arm over Illya's shoulders to guide him around to face the bed. Napoleon settled him the bondage frame as he wished —kneeling, and bent over face down— then placed a spreader bar between Illya's thighs and fastened the thigh cuffs to it. Happily drifting in a haze of subby comforts, Illya felt himself being secured at half a dozen points, so that he was truly immobile. Helpless to stop himself, he tested the bonds, struggling, writhing within his confines. Illya moaned in ecstasy at his failure to free himself.

"Hush now," Napoleon said, running his hand over Illya's skin and the ropes that secured him, from shoulder to buttocks. "I've got you. You're not going anywhere." Napoleon's hand lingered on Illya's exposed backside and suddenly Illya realized what had to come next.

Napoleon stepped away from him now and Illya could hear him moving about the room. Eventually he came to a stop, standing to Illya's left. Illya could hear him breathing.

"You're smart enough to figure out where we are in our evening, yes?" Napoleon asked now. 

"Is it time for my punishment, then?" Illya asked in return, feeling strangely accepting.

"You've earned ten strokes from my cane," Napoleon said by way of answering. "You'll count each stroke as it falls."

"Yes, Napoleon," Illya answered, lowering his head to rest against the padded frame. The first stroke, when it came, made him shout.

"One!" Illya cried, gasping with shock. He'd been caned before, but not since his Navy days. He'd forgotten the deep, biting pain of a caning. The bite came again, searing across his buttocks.

"Two!" he shouted, thinking how far he had to go yet. So many infractions he'd committed, from sarcasm and smugness to distrust and disobedience. He had, indeed, earned every one of these strokes.

"Three!" The pain cut deep, eating into the very heart of him. It would consume him before the end, Illya was sure.

"Four!" Illya heard his voice break as he cried out the number, his body uselessly striving against his bonds.

"Five!" The last vestiges of his control shattered, even the numbers he shouted were losing their meaning. Illya was losing himself in the pain.

"Six!" he sobbed, breath heaving. His intellectual, even emotional self was stripped away. He was animal flesh, no more, suffering at his Top's command.

"S… seven!" he gasped. The fight was gone out of him now, the pain no longer an intrusion, but his very essence.

"Eight!" he choked out. Eight fiery brands across his backside, each placed there with care by his Top and for that reason, something to be revelled in.

"N… n-nine." He was a vessel, no more, for Napoleon's will. Whether he be filled with pain or pleasure, it must be all the same to him… and it was, somehow. The pain was no longer hurting him, for he was no longer opposing it. He could accept it and take whatever Napoleon wished him to.

" _Ten!!_ " he wailed in triumph and agony. He'd done it! He'd taken all ten strokes and his ecstasy suffused his suffering till they were one. In the silence that followed he became aware of another series of harsh breaths, coming as a counterpoint to his own. Footsteps moved around the bed to stand… no, kneel before him and now his Top's hands were framing his face, lifting him to be kissed with a passion that burned no less than the ten welts on his backside.

"My, Illyushka, my sweet, magnificent sub," he murmured, laying more kisses on his face. "You did it, all ten, and so beautifully. You'll have your reward soon, I promise. Very soon."

"Thank you," Illya said with a wrecked voice, and sniffled. Napoleon returned a moment later with a handful of Kleenex, helping Illya blow his nose and then wiping his eyes under the blindfold.

"No. Thank you," Napoleon said. "You are a gift to me, Illya, more precious than anything." Illya smiled at the praise, basking in Napoleon's endearments.

"In fact, we're going to have our rewards together," Napoleon commented now, rising to stand before Illya now. "I've been wearing a cock ring this whole time, you know. Since I came and found you asleep in the bath, anyhow. But I'm done with personal restraint for this evening…" there was a pause as Napoleon was probably removing said restraint, "and now I'm going to fuck your pretty, pretty mouth, my Illyushka, and I'm going to fuck it hard. You can come when I do. But first, I must have a closer look at my handiwork."

Illya almost came at Napoleon's declaration of his intentions, but held himself back with the promise that he would not have to wait much longer. He moaned with anticipation and waited to feel his Top's cock at his lips. Instead he heard Napoleon move around to stand behind him, then Illya drew a sharp breath at the slow caress of Napoleon's hand over the ten long welts across his ass.

"Perfectly spaced, if I do say so myself," Napoleon said. "Ah, someday my Illyushka, I'll spank this ass till it's cherry read, and then fuck it while it's still blazing hot from my hand."

Now Illya felt his Top lean over him where he lay bound on the frame, and Illya realized that at last Napoleon was entirely naked. Then he felt Napoleon's cock, hard and eager, pressing against his welted ass.

"Please!" Illya groaned, mindless with longing.

"Please what?" Napoleon asked, maddeningly, making little thrusts against Illya's over sensitized ass.

"Please!" Illya gasped. "Please… fuck me!" It was the only thing he could think to say; the only thing that would ease the terrible wanting in him.

"Well, when you ask so nicely," Napoleon smiled with his voice and then he was coming back around to stand before Illya, and then there was a fist in his hair, lifting his head up to meet the cock at his lips.

"You'll take it," Napoleon commanded. "You'll take everything I have to give you." And Illya moaned in desire and opened his mouth to take his Top's cock.

From the very start Napoleon thrust into him almost brutally, fucking Illya's throat deep and fast. Utterly immobile —even more than he'd been this morning— Illya knew himself to be nothing more than an orifice for his Top's pleasure, and submitting himself to such use was a sublime joy that he would never have words to express. Napoleon thrust into him with a driving rhythm and Illya gasped and panted between Napoleon's thrusts and felt his own cock grow almost painfully hard. This could not last much longer for either one of them.

And it didn't. Suddenly Napoleon wasn't gripping his hair, but tearing off his blindfold, growling, "Eyes closed! Tight Closed now!" Illya did as instructed without so much as a thought and then Napoleon's cock was jerked out of his mouth and then something was spattering warm over his face and then… oh! 

And then… Illya let go.

Illya was not at all sure he could have held back, the moment he realized that Napoleon had come on his face, even If Napoleon had not told Illya he could come when his Top did. The realization came with the impact of a small atom bomb in Illya's psyche, and the very last shreds of any self-control Illya left had were utterly vaporized. He was not sure, but he thought he might actually have screamed. The waves of ecstasy that coursed through his body also seized around the enormous dildo in his ass and caused his prostate to be prodded mercilessly, and this set off a sort of feedback effect that had Illya crying out his climax for what seemed several minutes.

Napoleon, Illya considered as his brain finally began to engage once more, seemed to have endured an equivalent experience, as he was now kneeling on the floor, collapsed against Illya and sobbing, "Jesus… Jesus Christ almighty, Illya…" It was some considerable span of time before either of them had the willpower to do much more than just breathe.

It was Napoleon who eventually stirred first —as was right and proper, for he was the Top. He kissed Illya's lips as he drew back, then said, "I'll be back in a moment with a washcloth."

Illya had absolutely no desire to move so much as his little finger, but the cum on his face was starting to cool and dry, and though the oversized dildo in his ass still felt arousing in its discomfort, soon enough it would become just plain uncomfortable. Napoleon was back in a moment, however, to wash Illya's face with a warm wet cloth first of all. He cleaned around Illya's tightly shut eyes carefully, combing a few stray locks of Illya's hair out of his face when he was done.

"You may open your eyes any time you like," Napoleon said softly, "or you can leave them closed for now. It's up to you. I'll be several minutes getting you out of all this."

Illya nodded, content to remain in the dark for now. "I'm going to take the dildo out first," Napoleon explained. "It may be a little uncomfortable, but if you feel anything that doesn't seem right, let me know."

"Mm hmm," Illya answered foggily. He could feel Napoleon fiddling with the ropes which held the dildo in place, and could tell when they loosened. Then there was a gentle tugging at the dildo until it gave way, slowly sliding out. Illya seemed to feel a general shifting of his internal organs in its absence, but nothing alarming.

"There we go," Napoleon said when it was out. "Everything feel okay back there?"

"It aches a bit," Illya said, knowing a more coherent response was required of him now. "But nothing more."

"I imagine you'll be feeling it for a few days… along with a few other things," Napoleon replied, running his hand over the welts on Illya's ass again. At this Illya's eyes, at last, flew open, but fortunately the room was not too brightly lit.

"It will be a reminder that I will appreciate in the days to come," Illya said truthfully.

"Glad to hear it," Napoleon replied, setting to work releasing Illya's wrists. As with all things, Napoleon was careful and considerate with Illya as he unbound him —massaging his shoulders once his arms were free and carefully easing him off the frame and onto his side when he came to remove the upper part of the rope dress. Once everything was removed from Illya and put away, Napoleon came to join him on the bed, drawing Illya carefully into his arms and holding him close.

Instinctively, Illya wrapped his arms around his Top in turn, feeling the need for closeness so strongly that he came to wonder if this transformation Napoleon had worked upon him was permanent. He felt so terribly clingy and needy at the moment and that was so utterly unlike him… and yet the same seemed to hold true for Napoleon, whose arms held Illya with equivalent desperation.

Head still swimming with the pleasant effects of their scene, Illya considered that Napoleon was likely as much 'under the influence' as he was, and that this clinginess would pass in time. Knowing that, he could enjoy it now, basking in the closeness of his Top and their reciprocal affection.

This precipitated, after some time, into kissing, which seemed to evolve organically from both of them. They were slow, lingering kisses without the hungry urgency of unsated lust, nor the desperate longing of an impending parting. These were kisses which merely existed, outside of time, almost, both of them entirely in the moment as they tasted one another. In time, however, hunger of a sort did intrude and it was of the more conventional sort, which made itself known audibly in Illya's stomach.

Illya was inclined to ignore it at first, but Napoleon could not, taking his duties in caring for his sub must seriously. He coaxed Illya carefully upright and then onto his feet —sitting being something that Illya was going to find uncomfortable for a few days. Napoleon dressed him in silk boxers, which were almost pleasant against his abraded skin, and a robe, dressing himself similarly. In the kitchen, the kneeling bench was still sitting next to the table, so Illya perched himself there while Napoleon turned the heat back on under the soup and lit the broiler for garlic bread.

Moving from the dimly lit bedroom to the brightly lit kitchen made Illya blink a lot and he let his eyes drift closed again as he sat at the table taking in the smells of the food Napoleon was preparing. Illya saw that he would be feeding himself when Napoleon put a plate and tableware in front of him and found that he neither regretted the end of his being fed nor particularly anticipated feeding himself. Slowly, he was emerging from his deep submission, but at a comfortable, leisurely pace.

Once his eyes had become accustomed to the bright kitchen lights, he found it pleasant to watch Napoleon move about the kitchen half clothed. It was almost fair compensation, he considered, for not being able to see his lover all day. Soon enough there was soup and fragrant garlic bread sitting in front of Illya, and his appetite roused itself as always —a part of Illya that would never, ever be submissive. As he enjoyed his food, however, he also enjoyed glancing over at the slightly besotted smile on Napoleon's face as he watched Illya eat.

"I didn't think," Napoleon said when they'd mostly finished their meal, "about the consequences of the Russians seeing you marked like this. It'll be clear that you've been playing and no one's applied to the consulate for permission to Top you. Is that going to cause problems?" Illya shook his head.

"Actually, you _have_ applied for permission to Top me," he explained. "It was the first of the forms that you submitted prior to your official challenge application. It makes no difference at any rate. Reznikov won't be happy to see me marked whether I had permission or not and I don't care."

"Are you sure Illya?" Napoleon said with concern. "They could make your life a living hell and it may be weeks before I'm able to get my challenge scheduled and come for you."

"They will try," Illya said, reaching out to take Napoleon's hand, "but they will not be able to do any real harm. For starters, the fact that I am a former UNCLE asset will prevent them from killing or permanently maiming me, just as my being a former KGB asset restricted what I could do here in the US, but more importantly," Illya drew a breath, searching for words to express a thing he never imagined he would want to say.

"Napoleon, you have put your fingerprints on my very soul. They are indelible. Reznikov and his cronies in the _Politbureau_ have no chance of touching me in any way that matters, no matter what they do. If they make me suffer, I will be suffering for you. If they force pleasures on me, they will be yours. That is the gift you have given me today."

Illya had seen Napoleon look less stricken after having been shot. His eyes were wide and very bright. "Illya," he began, his voice catching slightly. "My Illyushka… I would say I didn't mean to, but that makes me sound incompetent…"

"And you are anything but…" Illya put in with a smile.

"Yes, well," Napoleon continued, clearing his throat. "Let's just say I didn't know my own strength and that… there's something like an Illya-shaped vestibule in my own soul and I'll never be complete without you by my side to fill it."

They sat in silence, Napoleon's fingers interlacing with Illya's on the kitchen table, and let the impact of their statements sink in.

"I suppose," Illya said after a long moment, "that in the light of such declarations, even a collar seems irrelevant."

"It may be that it does," Napoleon said with an indulgent smile. "Now, who wants cheesecake?"

*^*^*^*

Several weeks will go by, and we will pick up our tale with Napoleon in Moscow, in Part II of The Theremin's Protege Affair: Capture the sub...


End file.
